Archive | January 11, 2017

January By the Numbers Ten: Busy bees buzzing brightly (fiction Piece)

January by the numbers continues (still a day off~)!
From [personal profile] clare_dragonfly‘s prompt “Busy bees buzzing brightly, bearing beauteous bouquets.;” a ficlet
“The hive’s alight tonight.” Oshen stared at the office building, bright with lights in the middle of the night. From their vantage point, three buildings over, the people moving around looked like ants — or maybe bees — insects anyway, buzzing around, bopping here and there in what looked like a random pattern. “Who do you think kicked it?”

“It doesn’t look that much like a hive,” Nensho complained. “I mean, okay, it’s sort of got that shape, but—”

“But it’s full of worker bees, moving here and there, doing whatever their little Queen Bee tells them. Except for Eidercorp, it’s not a Queen Bee, is it? It’s a King Bee. Unnatural.” Oshen grinned, liking the taste of the word. “Unnatural. Against the natural order of things. Counter to the way things are supposed to be.”

“Easy now,” Nensho chided. “You’re doing that thing where you get carried away again and then you start believing your own propaganda. Don’t forget that thing last year with Tenor, Inc. It ended up being a big mess, and all because you got caught up in your alliteration and allegory.”

“There was some onomatopoeia, too,” Oshen complained. “And maybe some rhyme.”

“Either way, every way, anyway, just don’t. We have a goal, no?”

“We have a goal, now.”

“Good. So, let’s get to the goal.” Nensho stared at Eidercorp through high-powered binoculars. “All right, they’re clearly up to something. I can’t tell quite what from here but it looks a little bit like a dance, doesn’t it?”

“What, they’re telling the King Bee where the honey is? That seems a little too literal when they’re working off of my metaphor,” Oshen complained.

“No.” Nensho frowned. “It looks like they’re taking bouquets to the CFO. All of them. Everyone in the company.”

“…And you say I get carried away.”

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In Which Neither Amrit nor Mieve Communicate

First: A beginning of a story which obnoxiously cuts off just before the description,
Previous: In Which Mieve is Uncertain and Unhappy.

Amrit stalked to the garage behind her — behind his captor, because she refused to be something else. She was scared. He could tell. He ought to be happy about that, but it was just making him more angry.
He handed her the turkey piece by piece and snarled the Workings at the fridge that would keep the inside cold for a while, adding three large blocks of ice to the freezer. The thought made him smirk, even through his fury. “Icebox,” he muttered. “Height of Betty Boop technology.”


She snickered. “At least you don’t have to carry it up the stairs.”

“Yeah, well.” He shifted his weight uncertainly. “What now?”

“Now, I’m going to cook up the leg I put aside, and we’re going to have that with dinner. And cake.” She sounded defensive about the cake. Who was defensive about cake? Who was defensive to their slaves? “Thanks… for the turkey. It’ll be good food.”

“Yeah, well.” Was she mad at him or happy with him? Amrit rolled his shoulders. “What do I need to do for dinner?”

“Just clean up. Unless, uh. Unless you want to play heat source for the pan?”

“You’ve got the stove, right?”

“I have a limited amount of stove fuel. I could heat up the wood stove, but…”

It wasn’t that cold out, not really. “I can do it Just give me a couple minutes to clean up?”

“Yeah, of course. I’ll get everything prepared.”

What was up with her, anyway? She was pleased with him, she was apologetic, she was angry, she was… Amrit eyed her sidelong. She had hormones, he was sure, but he was pretty sure this wasn’t some sort of fae PMS.

He washed his hands like he was prepping for surgery, and then washed them — and his arms, all the way to the shoulder — again, just to give himself something to do. His shirt wasn’t all that dirty, but he left it off to let his arms dry off.

She had everything waiting for him, so he sat down at the table, ignoring her far-too-thoughtful gaze on him. “Low, medium, high?”

“High at first, and then the best all-over medium you can do. Do you need a new shirt?”

“What, you keep a clothing store in your garage?” He’d been in her garage. He hadn’t seen anything of the sort.

“I have a few shirts and such in my closet. There’s some in your closet, too,” she answered, a little uncertainly. “Most of it ought to fit you okay.”’
Amrit didn’t want to think too closely about that. He did the Workings to make the pan hot just where he wanted it hot, and held it in the air, the turkey leg sizzling.

“You have people just run out naked?” The more reasonable answer was she killed them and buried them in her garden, but that didn’t really seem like her.

“Not naked. But.. Sometimes they don’t stop for a change of clothes.” She looked away. “And, uh, sometimes I trade for stuff and it doesn’t fit me well or at all, but I know there’s going to be someone new that it might fit eventually.” She swallowed. He watched her throat work, and wondered what she was worried about.
“And… when people attack here, I mean, it doesn’t happen often, but I make sure they don’t tell anyone else about this place.”

Amrit looked at her over the crackling turkey leg. “I’m not going to be bothered by wearing dead man’s clothes,” he told her levelly, “as long as there’s not still blood and bullet-holes in them. It wouldn’t be the first time. Hell, these pants, I got them out of someone’s house. Not sure if they’re alive or dead. It’s the end of the world, you know?”

“I know. Most of the stuff I trade for, it’s about the same, you know, might be something from a store, more likely something from a house. I don’t ask where the scroungers get their stuff. And they don’t ask me questions, either.”

She was babbling. She was nervous. Amrit stared at the pan for a moment and muttered a series of fine-tuning Workings. He didn’t need to do them, but it let him concentrate on something other than her worried voice.

He rolled his shoulders, stared at the pan some more, and did a couple more Workings. “I’m not great at, you know, repairing Worked things. If I was, I figure I’d either be set for life or chained up in a sweatshop somewhere, which, I suppose, is also set for life.” He smiled crookedly at her. “I could use a shirt. I could use a shower,” he admitted. “Or a bath. I kind of smell.”

For some reason, that got her to smile. She turned away for a moment, as if she didn’t want him to see her smile – did she ever make any sense at all? “You get used to it. But bath, that’s easy, especially seeing as you can do the whole heating thing.” She settled down into a chair and seemed to force herself to look at him. “Thank you. For the turkey.”

He rolled his shoulders. “You said that already.”

“Yeah, well. It’s important?” She took a couple breaths. What was wrong with her? “Thank you for the promises, too. I know you didn’t have to do it. And I know you didn’t do it just to get the gag off.”

“Not gonna keep the gag off anyway, is it?” She was making him antsy. He made himself look at her.

“Well.” She smiled crookedly. “I could ask you to be Mine again.”

“You know what I’d say.” He knew what he’d say, too. Didn’t he? He cleared his throat. “I’m not the rules sort. Not the Keeping sort.”

“I know. But you’ll make promises?”

“Easy to make promises not to attack you.” The turkey was almost done. Good. That would give them something else to talk about.

“Even though…” She looked down at her hands.

“Look.” Amrit sighed. “You didn’t enslave me. You bought someone you expected to be already Kept, nice and wrapped up in a ribbon for you. I wasn’t, and I’m not going to be sorry for that but I get why you kept the gag on and the chains and stuff. And the leg – relax about the leg. I’ve had worse than that. Seriously. I forgive you, if there was any forgiving to happen, you have it. You don’t need it; you told me exactly what was going to happen and then you did it.” Now he was babbling. What was wrong with him?

She looked at him for a minute. “Time to take the turkey down to a very low heat, okay?”

“What… yeah.” He did the Workings and surrounded the turkey in a ball of heat before setting it, carefully, on the stove. “That should hold it.”

“Thank you.” She shifted in her seat, staring at him.

Amrit sighed. It might just be easier for her to put the gag back in.


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Lady Taisiya’s 4th Husband, Chapter 15: Learning – a fantasy/romance fdomme story

Find Chapter 1 here
Chapter 2 is here
Chapter 3 is here
Chapter 4 is here
Chapter 5 is here
Chapter 6 is here
Chapter 7 is here.

Chapter 8: here
Chapter 9: here
Chapter 10: here
Chapter 11 (R-Rated) here
Chapter 12: here
Chapter 13: here
Chapter 14: here

You can skip Chapter 11 without losing the plot.

The bandit squirmed, his hand ending up near his waist. Sefton caught the man’s hand before he could grab hold of whatever weapon he had hidden in his belt-pouch.

“Remember the tender sensibilities of our egglings,” Sefton chided with false calm. “You don’t want to see what happens if you draw steel in front of one of our sons.”

He was a little surprised at himself, to be saying our sons, but it was a truth enough for this.

The bandit paled. “You’re not really going to…”

“Why do we wear chains?” Jaco asked. It was a bit amusing, coming from someone not wearing any. But the question was still there. “Husbands. Why are we chained?”

Hothyan laughed. “That’s eggling stuff. Everyone knows that.”

“This one doesn’t seem to.” Jaco prodded the bandit with his hook. “And he’s wearing ’em, which makes me wonder a number of things.’

“They mean… they mean you’ve submitted to your wife. GIven in, surrendered.” The bandit’s voice was turning into a whine.

“Now that’s an interesting interpretation. Hothyan, have you ever heard that?”

“No, sir. I mean, once from one of those strangers, the ones with the robes. But everyone knows they’re crazy.”

“Everyone does,” Jaco agreed ominously. “But ‘submitted,’ that part’s right.”

Sefton leaned against the door frame, his blade pinning down the bandit’s wrist. “Knelt and everything,” he agreed. “She’s in charge. Her, and then Onter, and then Calum. We have a proper chain of command.”

“Chain of… that sounds military.” The bandit was bleeding lightly from several of his wounds. That was going to be a bear to clean up.

Sefton grinned, showing all his teeth. He could see Jaco and Hothyan doing the same. “It does sound military, doesn’t it?”

“I wonder why that is?” Jaco asked thoughtfully. “Why the families here have such a millitary sounding structure?”

“You’re supposed to be weaklings,” the bandit complained. “You’re supposed to be afraid. All locked up and frail, like women.”

“Like women?” Hothyan scoffed. “What kind of women do you know, that are frail?

Sefton had fallen silent. He glanced over at Jaco. Jaco seemed to have reached the same conclusion.

“You’re from the Table-Lands, across the water.” Jaco’s voice was hoarse. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

“Bandits aren’t supposed to be here, either,” Hothyan pointed out. “They’re intruders, dangerous. They take girls.”

The bandit leered. “And boys. And weakling husbands. We’ll take everyone we can gra-ah!” He fell silent as Jaco’s hook poked further into him.

“You’ve come a long way to be a bandit. Bandits,” Jaco explained to Hothyan, “are usually people like us, egg-people from our lands. They might trade with other nations, with pirate and slavers, but they’re often born in a nursery just like you were.”

“No bandit was born anyplace this posh,” the bandit sneered. “Nor would they call themselves ‘bandits.’ That’s just the stupid house-proud name for them.”

“‘Them?’” Jaco poked the man again. “If they’re ‘them’ then what are you?”

The bandit shut his mouth, finally deciding to be quiet.

Jaco sighed. “Oh, you’re going to be difficult. And I was hoping you’d keep spewing out information. Well, let’s see. Hothyan, what blades do you have with you?”

“I’ve got my long-knife and the short nasty-looking black dagger,” Hothyan volunteered. He looked a little pale and a little eager all at once.

Sefton didn’t blame him. This was the first time Sefton had actually encountered a bandit – or someone working with the bandits, or pretending to be a bandit, or whatever this guy actually was – in the living flesh. He’d seen a few dead ones, after they’d attempted to attack his mother’s house, but never one kicking and bleeding and, it seemed, telling lies about the husbands-of-wives who lived here.

Jaco, however, was talking as if torturing bandits was an everyday affair for him. Sefton wondered how much of this was bluster and how much was just fact and experience.

“All right, so. Take the long-knife, and roll him over, like this.” Jaco rolled the bandit over with a foot. “You want to start with the shoulders, here. Or the fingers, but that takes a different tool.”

Out of the corner of Sefton’s eye, he could see the other children sneaking closer. He gestured them backwards with a surreptitious hand-wave.

“Right, right.” The bandit’s voice was a little muffled; he lifted his head up enough to talk. “I, we, we’re from the Desthian settlement. It’s on the other side of the Deep Bay, what you call the Rudder Sea here. It’s a small place, and we never see people from here there. We weren’t sure if you even knew about it. But we’re having some troubles with our land, and so we snuck into a few bandit groups to see if it were common.”

“Why didn’t you just send an ambassador to talk to our consulate?”

“Because your consulates are not interested in the Desthian. They’re interested in the Thaoushie, who happen to currently be claiming all of the Desthian territory, and who also have better trade goods. Us, normal Desthians, they don’t care one bit about.”

“So, what, you attack our homes?” Sefton glared at the man’s back.

“So we embedded ourselves into bandit groups because then we could see what was going on here with every-day people, people who weren’t part of the consulate or the government.”

“And attacked our homes,” Sefton finished for him. “Lovely.”

“It’s a pretty story,” Jaco cut in. “But how did you get into the nursery?”

“I can’t… ow. Okay, okay. Phorino, the one who ran off. He worked with the people who made the vault doors. They all have different combinations, but they all have the same fail-safes. In case a wife needs to get in, if her husbands rebel or, I don’t know, lock themselves in by accident.”

Jaco pushed air out between his lips in a long plosive sigh. “You… no. Seriously? There is no way that you’re telling the truth. It just…”

“It’s awful,” Sefton agreed. “Would they really make a, what, a key? It’s not as if she doesn’t have the combination.”

“Hey, look. I’m telling the truth. Phorino took it with him, but I can show you where in the door it went.” The bandit — the person pretending to be a bandit, Sefton supposed — tried to get to his feet, only to be stopped once again by Jaco’s hook. “I’m telling the truth, I swear!”

“We can take this from here.” Lady Taisiya’s voice was like a splash of cold water. Sefton moved, half-unconsciously, to block her view of Jaco as she came around the corner. “Very well done, Feltian, Jaco, Hothyan. Now get back in the nursery, that’s good boys, and I’ll talk with our bandit here.”

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